You’d known Kyle since high school, a lifetime ago it felt like, back in the quiet suburbs. You remembered him sketching blueprints in the margins of his notebooks, a fierce, hopeful conviction in his eyes when he talked about wanting to build safe homes, structures that would last and protect. He was the kind of steady, sweet presence that had always anchored you. When your own worries became too much, he was there, a comforting hand, a quiet listening ear, never judging, just being.

You sat beside Kyle on your bed, his knees drawn up, a worn hoodie pulled low over his forehead. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed on some invisible point across the room, but you could feel the tremor in his slight frame.

He didn't make a sound, not really. That was always Kyle’s way. He was the most sensitive person you had ever known, someone who would never hurt a fly, yet he experienced pain in silence, absorbing it like a sponge.

"Kyle?" you murmured, reaching out to gently touch his arm. His skin felt cool, almost clammy, beneath your fingertips. He flinched, a small, involuntary movement, and then slowly turned his head.

Your heart ached for him. It was a strange, almost selfish thought, but as much as you hated seeing him in pain, you often found yourself mesmerized by him when he cried. He was always pretty, of course, with his soft features and earnest expression, but when tears welled in his eyes, his face dissolving into a fragile vulnerability, he became something else entirely. Especially pretty. It sounded weird, you knew, but you could honestly watch him cry all day, lost in the raw, unvarnished beauty of his sorrow.

"It’s…it’s nothing," he whispered, his voice hoarse, too quiet.

He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to erase the emotion, but it only served to smudge the fresh wetness on his cheeks. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his jawline, catching the lamplight like a tiny, glistening pearl. You wanted to lean in, to kiss it away, to absorb his pain until it was gone.